


I’ll put my roots down when I’m dead.

by TemperateWriting



Series: DreamSMP Songfics [2]
Category: DreamSMP, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Gen, Ghostbur, No Dialogue, No beta we die like George getting assassinated by Techno, Songfic, Wilbur POV, damn I really wrote this during class, spoilers for second war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:35:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27618446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TemperateWriting/pseuds/TemperateWriting
Summary: Wilbur’s final spiral, put to the end by a father.===Song: Since I saw Vienna.
Series: DreamSMP Songfics [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1968172
Kudos: 39





	I’ll put my roots down when I’m dead.

**Author's Note:**

> Why did I do this

> _ “ _ _ The cute bomber jacket you've had since sixth form _
> 
> _ Adorned with patches of places you've been _
> 
> _ Is nothing on my khaki coat I got _
> 
> _ From a roadside when I was sixteen” _

Wilbur watched silently as several members of their large group suited up in the enchanted netherite. He knew he didn’t need it. Helmets were pulled onto blonde hair, chest plates fitted against green button-up shirts. Everybody seemed to be getting an “upgrade.” Wilbur glanced down at his own trench coat, remembering playful bantering of being a homeless man.

Wilbur knew it was the only thing he needed. The clothes on his back and the strong vision of the future he’d promise for far too long now. Armor wouldn’t help him. 

> _ “My boots are from airports _
> 
> _ My backpack's from friends _
> 
> _ I'm not a man of substance, and so I'll pretend _
> 
> _ To be a wanderer, wondering _
> 
> _ Leaving ascetic belongings in hostels and restaurant bins” _

He didn’t have much either, Wilbur noticed. Some bits of food and a pickaxe. Hesitantly, he pulled a sword from a holding sheath, and a bow from a hanger on the vault’s wall. Minimalistic, but all he needed. Everybody else had already accepted that he’d lost his rocker far too long ago. 

Good, then maybe they would understand. Maybe the most damage would be to the land, they would be expecting this. The small ounce of guilt he had continued to shrink into almost nothing. He was unstoppable, but not greedy to rise. 

> _ “The roads are my home, horizon's my target _
> 
> _ If I keep on moving, never lose sight of it _
> 
> _ Treating my memory of you like a fire, let it _
> 
> _ Burn out, don't fight it, and try to move on” _

They were on the move again. A mixture of excitement and nerves from his “brothers”-in-arms contrasted his own. The outcome would be the same. Wilbur wasn’t worried, he just had to play a part. 

As they climbed a tower of a former king, now among their ranks to fight for whats “good,” Wilbur pulled into character

Arrows flew mercilessly down at the smaller troops. Fireworks were set off as the people advanced, pushing out the opponents, pushing out the elected government far too easily.

With the surrender that came soon after, and the heart attack of an emperor, it seemed too easy. Tommy seemed to accept the new role, and he had to swallow a smirk, one coming from his fantasy of ripping out that perfect ending from the naive teen. 

> _ “It's been sixty weeks since I saw Vienna _
> 
> _ A bandage and a wide smile slapped across my face” _

The odd, sadistic happiness was soon replaced with a bitter aftertaste as Tommy declined, pushing the role on Wilbur again. Wilbur had played this part before, being the oh-so great leader, and he had failed. 

L’manberg, the true nation, before the election, was gone. He hasn’t seen it in months. He’d never see it again. With a false smile and apology, Wilbur made the second youngest to take the role of power. The boy he once admitted reminded him of himself, his old self, his dead feelings. 

They spoke, but he wasn’t listening. Wilbur had already snuck off to the room, one that he would (hopefully) see for the last time. 

> _ “I'll pick up my hiking boots when I am ready _
> 
> _ And I'll put down my roots when I'm dead” _

One figure, one button, one goal. Wilbur didn’t need to make this dramatic, the aftermath would be enough. He reached out a hand. 

Two figures, one button, two goals. A father, concerned for his sons. How they have fallen from their previous lives. One craved for anarchy, another for arson and destruction. Somehow, the one filled with rage seemed to be normal. 

His approach was careful, too careful, and Wilbur finally had a small audience to perform to. 

The show went on. Explosions larger than fireworks, but less colorful. Painful ringing in his ear, debris flying, and then silence. A terrifying silence, a disappointed father. 

He pleaded, Wilbur pleaded, for the sweet release. From the hands of his own father. The pleas didn’t stop, he needed to finish. His work was done and he needed to rest.

It didn’t take too long for him to cave in. The same blade he’d brought pierced his chest. There was pain, blood, trouble breathing, and silence. He felt himself drifting, but the father only saw the face of a dead son, peacefully at rest with a sickening, gentle smile. Tears weren’t far.

> _ “The distance is futile _
> 
> _ Come on, don't be hasty _
> 
> _ You'll get that feeling deep inside your bones _
> 
> _ I'll be gone then, for when you must be alone” _

__ And so the spirit, finally at peace, drifted across the rubble he had made, dodging the living in panic of more destruction brought upon them. There would be a time where he would communicate, far past their understanding. 

Today was not the day. Some needed to grieve. Wilbur needed to marvel over his success.


End file.
